Hot Water Helps You Clean

Hot Water Helps You Clean
by Angela Rasch

I had just finished conditioning the oak woodwork in our twenty-year old home’s basement with Murphy Oil Soap when the doorbell rang. I scanned myself in the wall mirror and wished for the millionth time that my uniform fit me better. There’s only so much you can do to make a maid’s dress look natural on a forty-year old male body that weighs in excess of two hundred pounds, unless you make drastic changes. . .operations and hormones. I sighed . . . Once again considering things that could never happen.

My black dress ended at my knees and its arms and neck were decorated with delicate white lace. The polished fingers of my right hand pushed several errant hairs off my face from my shoulder-length, honey-blonde wig.

Lisa will get the door. At least this time I wasn’t vacuuming the living room rug. Several times in the past I had been doing that when the doorbell rang. Anyone waiting at the front door could see into our living room through the side-door window, but I’d never been caught. Those close calls gave me a terrible scare; no harm/no foul.

I heard Lisa’s footsteps overhead going to the front door and continued my self-inspection in the mirror. Taking my cherry-red lip gloss from the side pocket of my dress I freshened the middle of my bottom lip.

All I can do is wait. I’ve been waiting all my life to wake up in a female body. . .so I’m well-practiced at passing time.

We had hung our wedding picture on the wall next to the mirror. It hadn’t faded much over the last eighteen years. We had been married just after college when things looked bright and sparkly. Little did I know at that time that I would end up at forty in a dead-end job — working at David Scott Enterprises as an account manager.

Account manager! That’s just a glorified term for David Scott’s gofer. The money was enough to keep Lisa happy although she made much more than I did. Truth told — I enjoyed helping David, and allowing him to take all the credit for my work wasn’t really so bad.

To help give Lisa the time she needed for her tax law practice, and to balance things out, I took care of all the household duties, including the cleaning and cooking. And a damned fine maid I am. I curtsied to the mirror and smiled. The curtsy had taken years to perfect. The smile was natural — it brightened my face every time I had the opportunity to express my feminine side. When I had to dress drab and “be the man” I hardly ever found anything to celebrate.

We had been married five years when I finally told Lisa about my desire to dress in women’s clothing. I had decided I couldn’t go on as things were. I had dressed in my sister’s things when I could as a young teenager, and then had bought what I needed when her clothes no longer were big enough. I had become addicted to the utter tranquility that came over me when I was perched on high heels. I adored how make-up allowed my face to be as beautiful as I could manage, given the absolute necessity to be masculine during my work-day.

What’s taking her so long? I could hear a muffled man’s voice that sounded vaguely familiar. Lisa’s speaking louder than normal. I suppose she wants me to know what’s going on. Unfortunately I couldn’t quite make out what was being said.

Lisa had approached my dressing like she did everything else in life. She weighed the pros and cons and decided what was best for us. Her ground rules allowed me to dress whenever I wanted to, as long as I never left the house or allowed anyone but her to see me. Her practical side demanded that there be a purpose to my dressing, so I became her maid. Even though I knew that my dressing had a purpose. . .to keep me sane.

When I was dressed I was to stay in “character.” That’s the easiest part; all I have to do is forget all that horrid, male training and be myself. I was permitted to talk to her only as needed to carry out my cleaning and cooking duties. She thought it best to address me as Julie whenever I was dressed so that we would both understand that I wasn’t Mike.

As if I hadn’t actually been Julie all my life. . .a name I found when I was seven.

She said isolating the two personalities would help her “put up with it”. And. . .I know that my dressing permits me to “put up” with life.

I readily accepted her terms and over the years she redefined and fine-tuned our roles. Every day she made a list of duties for me . . . what she wanted done around the house. Her idea of “spotless cleaning” was far beyond my needs — but I relented and kept the kitchen floors clean enough to eat off, while managing the rest of the house to match. After a short while my gleaming house and tasty meals became a source of immense pride.

Nearly two years ago we had redecorated the guest bedroom as a maid’s room. Lisa had become ultra-sensitive to my perfume. She suffered from migraines and any scent added to her pain. I had offered to forgo wearing any cologne, but she insisted that I must “have my fun”. According to her, “A maid without perfume is like a day without orange juice.” So it naturally followed that I would have to sleep in my . . . the maid’s . . . room, if Lisa smelled any remnant of perfume. And — her nose was much more sensitive than mind, so that was more often than not. After a few lonely nights I came to appreciate the advantages to sleeping alone and woke much more refreshed than I had when I was in bed next to her.

I ever so quietly sniffed my wrist and smiled at the delicate sandalwood and musk undertones of my Celine Dion scent. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in how totally feminine I felt. Of course, the added excitement of nearly being caught en femme added to my pleasure.

I crept to the top of the basement stairs and stood with my back to the wall that separated me from the living room -- where I could hear that Lisa had, for some strange reason, allowed the man at the door to come in and was sitting with him.

He spoke again.

It’s David! My boss was in my living room. No wonder she couldn’t get rid of him right away.

My heart jumped into my throat and pumped blood so rapidly that my ears were pulsating. I was trapped. I needed to go through the living room to get to my bedroom and my male clothing. My only choice was to wait it out in hiding until he left.

“I’m sorry I missed Mike,” David said.

He’s lying. He always gets that little catch in his voice when he lies, which is nearly all the time.

“Mike got up at six so he and his pals could get a tee-time,” Lisa said with surprising smoothness.

Good. David knows I love to golf. I do love it -- almost as much as I love to do my eyes. It’s taken me years to figure out what colors work and all the shadow, liners, and mascara. My eyes do make me look sexy. Not to Lisa; she has another rule: no touching when I’m dressed. She has no idea how much I would love the affirmation of physical contact as Julie.

“In a way I’m glad Mike’s not here,” David said.

Oh God — that’s his I-want-to-fuck-you voice. I had attended too many conventions with David. Even when he had been married he would bed anything on two legs. He bragged about getting some of the best ass by taking on the less beautiful babes. He said their gratitude to a handsome man who would screw them made them absolutely crazy in the sack.

“Ugly is only skin-deep,” he would bray to the men in the office, “while the art of fucking is all about d-e-e-e-e-p penetration.”

“Mike won’t be back for hours,” Lisa said, a little too breathlessly.

I’m right around the corner — in case you’ve forgotten.

“Would you like a drink?” Lisa asked. “Mike has some thirty-year old scotch he’s been hoarding. I’m sure if he was here he’d be pouring it for you.”

Like hell. I wouldn’t give that asshole a glass of warm spit.

“I need to talk to Mike,” David said. “Lisa — you’ve been doing much of my tax planning for years so we don’t have many secrets from one another. Mike’s work has been slipping. I don’t know what’s been wrong, but he needs to get his game back together — and soon.”

What! I’ve been doing things just fine. Doesn't everyone screw things up once in a while?

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lisa said. “Do you mind if I join you on the couch? It seems so impersonal sitting wa-ay across the room from you in a lonely old chair.”

“I won’t bite,” David said with a laugh. “Cheers.”

I frowned when I heard them clinking their glasses.

“You’re not thinking of letting Mike go?” Lisa asked.

“Times are tough,” David said, “but we’re like family — Mike and you and me. I have a fond spot in my heart for you, Lisa.”

“Let me get you another drink,” she offered.

Good -- she’s going to move back to her chair.

“Ummm,” Lisa moaned.

“What’s wrong,” David asked — actually sounding as if he cared.

“My neck has a kink in it. I must have slept on it wrong.”

She hasn’t said anything to me about a pain in her neck.

“I have a bit of a reputation for my neck massages,” David bragged. “Let me have a go at it.”

“Would you?” Lisa practically purred.

Oh geez! David’s going to pull his signature neck massage move. . .the one he keeps telling all us guys about at work. He’s such a creep. Someone as strikingly-handsome as David shouldn’t stoop to what he does. He can be so sweet, when he wants to. Anyone would love to be with David.

From the location of her voice I could tell she was sitting next to him on the couch, again.

“Ohhhh . . . that’s heaven. Yessss. . .right there.”

She sounds orgasmic. She’s playing up to him, probably to save my job.

“Turn around, Lisa. Sometimes the pain in the back of the neck comes from the shoulder muscles in the front. Let me give them a bit of work-over.”

Oh. . .she can’t possibly fall for that line.

“That’s not my neck. . .or my shoulder. Uhmmmmmmm.”

“You don’t mind. . .do you? Sometimes I find that with women all muscle pain is centered in their breasts. That’s where women’s frustration ends up.”

“David. . .that feels sooooo good.”

If David sees me in my uniform he’ll fire me on the spot. I can’t allow him to make love to my wife, but I’m stuck here until I can think of something to do. Fact of the matter is, without my current salary we would lose our house.

“It would be better if I didn’t have to try to work through your blouse.”

“Do you want me to take it off?”

“Would you?”

Don’t Lisa. . . . I probably would have to take a big pay cut to find another job. . .if I could find another job in this market. . .but she doesn’t have to make love to him for my sake. She’s always making changes in how she and I relate, but this is too much.

“Maybe I should take off my bra, as well. Oh hell, David, why don’t I just get totally naked and you can massage whatever you need to.”

“That. . .sounds. . .wonderful.”

Am I imagining things, or are they’re kissing!

“Uhmmmmm. Not from the rear, David. I don’t do it that way.”

“But. . . .”

“I’ll take care of you. . .but not that. Oh, David. . . . Uhhhh. Like that.”

For the next twenty minutes I went through a personal version of illuminating hell. Several times I almost couldn’t stand it anymore and thought hard about going into that room and showing David who’s the boss in my house, but I was learning so much. . .about Lisa and David. . .and our marriage.

Finally, they finished.

“Ohhhhhh,” Lisa moaned, “that was marvelous. I’m sorry I’m such a baby about anal sex.”

“Nah. . .that’s okay,” David responded gallantly.

“No it’s not. You’re being so great allowing Mike to keep his job. We need to show our gratitude.”

We?

“Julie, come out here. I can smell your perfume so I know you’ve been hiding right around the corner.”

David will know it’s me. Lisa’s gone crazy. But. . . .

“Julie — right this minute. We have a guest, and you need to meet him.

Maybe if I balls-it out David won’t recognize me. Maybe this is the way to. . .? I walked into the living room trying to remember the thousand and one things I needed to do to look feminine.

“Julie,” Lisa said, “this is David. David, meet Julie. She does whatever I ask her to do — isn’t that right, Julie?”

I nodded and kept my eyes downcast in what I hoped was a convincing female posture. No eruption; so far — so good.

“Does she do everything you ask?”

David’s using his I-want-to-fuck-you voice.

“Absolutely everything,” Lisa assured him. “She’s the answer to our little anal sex dilemma. Julie, fix David another scotch and come sit by him. I’ll just sit over here in my chair and see what happens.”

I smiled and silently thanked fate that I’d taken the time to freshen my lip gloss. I do everything Lisa tells me to do. . .as long as I already want to do it.

The End



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